Skittles and M&Ms
by Kira
Summary: Sam and Dean and the weekly ritual of cleaning the Impala.


Just a little bit of fun; I need a break from all the angst in my other fic!

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**Skittles and M&Ms**

Dean Winchester was a junk food junkie.

The habit started not out of rebellion, as it does for most, but as result of living on the road most of the time. Convenience stores aren't particularly known for their fresh produce and healthy selection, and at seven, Dean was well versed in picking out not only the easiest things to make his brother for dinner, but the best junk food there was to offer.

He considers it a talent. His brother thinks he's crazy.

While Dean ate chips or M&M's, Sam Winchester would be stuck with whatever dinner Dean had scooped out of a can and warmed up on the stove -- that is, if the room had one. The alternative, a coffeemaker, could warm things such as ramen, and while it took longer and was often more chewy than Sam would have liked, he knows, in retrospect, that undercooked ramen was his brother's way of saying, _here, have the good stuff._

It only got worse as Dean grew up; his meals, if not fried in some way or dripping grease, would usually include some sort of junk food. He could go entire days without eating anything but Doritos and his prized peanut M&M's. To him, they were acceptable as any meal, no matter the time of day. Wash it down with a nice, hot cup of coffee, and Dean was a happy, happy man.

Not even his little brother could break him of _that_ particular habit. No matter how many times he switched Dean's beloved coffee with a softer Chai tea or even a latte (for a change of pace, Sam decided), Dean would take a sip, sputter, and demand his cup of black coffee.

And so, Sam tried different tactics. When driving, he'd pick a nice cafe or sandwich shop instead of the Greasy Spoons Dean seemed to find even in the middle of nowhere. When told to go out and get something for dinner -- _damnit, cause I'm covered in undead crap_ -- he'd find something remotely resembling real food.

But when Dean drove, there was little Sam could do about his brother's eating habits. At twenty-two, Sam was still prohibited from pumping gas -- forget that he was allowed to _drive_ the car; Dean's insistence on pumping the gas and going inside to pay himself could only be interpreted as his need to completely control one thing in their crazy lives.

And every week, when they can find a gas station with a car wash, Dean would pay the extra three or five or six dollars (but never more; water is free and soap can't cost that much) to wash and clean out the car. He'd moan and complain about not being able to wash and wax the car himself -- _these machines don't do that good of a job; plus, they can _eat_ cars_ -- and sit, arms crossed, jaw tight, while the automatic track pulled them through the tunnel.

And here, Sam was more baffled by his brother's reluctance to use a nice, normal car wash than Dean's thought of a car-eating car wash.

He'd wince when large brush bristles swiped across the immaculate black exterior, and once out of the tunnel, absolutely insist they wax the damn thing themselves.

"You know, there's an option for waxing," Sam said, rag in hand. Not only did Dean make him help, but he was the "Official Buffer" after each coat.

Of two.

There's a sigh from near the trunk, where Dean stood finishing up the second coat -- _thank God_. "You think that machine does a good job? Hell no. I'm not paying for something I can do myself."

"If you can do it yourself, _why_ am I helping?"

"Because you adore your big brother," Dean replied. "And because if you don't, I can make your life a living hell."

He did have a point there. Sam sighed, ruffling his bangs in the process, and continued what his brother so eloquently calls Mr. Miagi Circles on the hood. He started moving to the beat of the music blasting out of the Impala's speakers, letting it distract him from the task at hand. Every week. Every single week. Sure, after driving on some of the back roads Dean liked to take, Sam could understand the need to wash the car. But in the last seven days, they'd done nothing but cross the country on well-paved interstates, stopping at motels with actual parking lots and took meals at establishments even Sam couldn't complain about.

Halfway across the hood, where he has to lean almost completely over the car to get at that hard-to-reach center (and here he realized why Dean has him wax the hood, and promised to tease him relentlessly about it at a later date), he heard Dean's footsteps round the car and that unmistakable creak of a door being opened.

_Forget waxing, how about some WD-40, Dean?_

His brother scrounged around the driver's side seat for a few seconds before calling out, "Hand me the hose."

Sam paused, hand outstretched as far as it could go. God, the hood of the car was _huge. _"Are you serious? We just vacuumed last week."

"You think I want crumbs in my car? Now hand me the damn hose and shut your piehole."

Dean held his hand out the door, palm up, just _waiting_ for Sam to hand him what he needed. In a fit of childishness, Sam stood up and rounded the hood to the driver's side to slap his brother's palm. An awkward, sideways high-five.

"Maybe if you didn't eat in it all the time, there wouldn't be crumbs," he commented.

Dean's sunglasses hid his eyes, but Sam was pretty sure his brother was glaring. Hard.

But standing out there, in the hot mid-summer sun had done wonders for Sam's tolerance of his brother and his odd eating habits that created enough of a mess to _warrant_ said cleaning almost each and every week. Rag still in hand, Sam returned the glare with one of his own practiced and perfected over twenty-two years of dealing with the mighty Dean Winchester.

He added a bit of a pout, just in case.

Dean appeared, for once, impervious to the patented and honed look his younger brother was giving, because he kept his hand outstretched and tilted down his shades to say, "Hey, my car. I can do whatever I want in it, _Sammy_."

"I don't even want to know what you've done in there," Sam groaned.

Victorious, Dean gave him a sly grin so full of naughty suggestions, Sam couldn't help but grimace and swear to himself he was _never_ getting in the back seat as long as he lived. Dean laughed at his apparent discomfort and shook his head.

"Get your head out of the gutter," he remarked.

"Right. You've got exclusive rights on _that_ territory."

"Just get me the damn hose and finish the waxing."

Despite wishing to take a few more shots at Dean, Sam complied, handing over the vacuum hose without comment this time. He listened to the hum of the vacuum as it cleaned out the last week of Dean's basic food groups from the seats and floor; had anyone ever taught his brother junk food _wasn't_ the only kind of food?

He finished the hood and discarded the rag in the nearby garbage can. The sun was beginning to set, casting the horizon in an odd mix of pinks and purples only God could create. Soon, the stars would come out, the air would cool, and they'd be back out on the open road. Not talking, just listening to music while their minds mull over their next task, their previous one, or those all important questions of brotherhood or fidelity though of but never asked.

For now, there was just him and Dean and the simple, _normal_ task of washing and cleaning the car. Sam slid onto the hood, careful not to make any marks, and hooked a foot on the chrome bumper.

A bag of Skittles hit Sam in the chest. "What the hell, Dean?" he asked, retrieving the bag from where it bounced off him to the ground.

"Eat up, Geek Boy. Got a long ride ahead of us." Dean sat on the hood next to his brother and opened a bag of M&Ms, popping a few into his mouth with a smile. Maybe there's something to Dean's odd habits...

"You'd better not put your sugar-coated hands on my hood."


End file.
